Lost and Found
by RoseLight
Summary: Hawkeye and Margaret meet after the war.


LOST AND FOUND

Margaret glided past ivy-crumbling walls, the maple grove, the twisted rambling grapevines, her breathing deep and steady. Her body barely acknowledged pedaling the bicycle; all her attention was diffused by the wild tangle of beauty around her. Meadow green, forest green, creekbank green; green, green, green. The color now meant life and hope. She had lost her taste only for the everlasting olive shade.

She flashed back to the "red" party they had thrown for Hawkeye and smiled at the memory. When it was over, they all just wanted desperately to forget. She wondered how long Korea would be the reference point in her life.

Spring freshened around her. She rode early and alone. Margaret loved their little corner of the world. Greenfield, Mass. She even loved its name.

Crabapple Cove. Its promise of normalcy and security had lingered in his dreams, anchored his anticipation, embroidered his memories. But how to recover, in a small town where everyone claimed to know all about you since birth, and insisted They knew how you felt and They knew just what you needed, when you didn't know yourself anymore? The Town's welcome was smothering, constrictive.

The Town—that's how he saw it now, not eccentric individuals but one vast organism—opened it arms to hug Dr. Dan's war-weary son home—and found itself embracing a stranger. Not the war hero they had expected; not the glib young doctor drafted away from them. His moods ran from cold and distant to mocking; his celebrated humor brittle and bitter. And he knew he was not what they wanted.

He needed space and time to recover himself, or to get accustomed to this new self. Work that could not be accomplished under surveillance.

While he was a world away in Korea, the rest of his world continued to revolve.

His old pals had married his old gals. Now weekends consisted of lawn mowing on Saturdays and church on Sundays, in-law dinners and diaper stories and mortgage rates.

Unfair! That his friends had left him behind; that their lives had no room for him now.

Growing up an army brat, she claimed no allegiance to any town. There was no special place in her heart or on any map, waiting for her return. Without the army to give her a place to go, a task to do, she was plunked down, bewildered in a civilian world without authority or order.

She belonged no where, and she belonged to no one, so why not Boston? The stories Winchester and Pierce shared made her feel a connection there, a familiarity she discovered she longed for.

Alas, it was not enough to quell the old stifling "new girl" symptoms. She closed herself up like a primrose after dark; flinched at personal contact. She refused to admit that her experiences abroad had changed her in any way—in every way.

It was Friday, so she strolled to the park, taking full advantage of the delightful tradition of free summer concerts. Already she'd enjoyed afternoons of jazz, folk songs, Latin rhythms, and this week the schedule said rock & roll. The six month lease was nearly up on her apartment, and her car. She would have to make some plans, soon. Find a job. Plant herself. Get a life. But she'd think about that tomorrow. Today it was enough to be alive in the sunshine. She settled onto the grass.

He spotted her from across the square. Some people tap their feet to music; some clap their hands or nod their heads. But Margaret Houlihan was the only person he had ever known who bounced her entire body to the beat, swayed sensually against the cage of her bones. He shook his head, an ironic smile. The first person he was happy to see in the States was the last person he'd seen across the world.

So, would it hurt to wander closer? Gauge her interest, her availability? Now that he'd seen her, it would be positively rude to ignore her, right? Of course she deserved a cordial greeting. Perhaps a quick catch-up and a passing wave. An insincere invitation to an indefinite lunch. A friendly drink in a local tavern that bore absolutely no resemblance to Rosie's. Two old pals. War buddies, catching up. How utterly normal. How natural. How very ordinary.

But ordinary was not good enough for her—or him. For the first time in months, he sparked to the circumstances. He was nearly behind her when the band broke into a Lindy hop. He yanked her up off the lawn with one hand, grinning. Her scowl disappeared in recognition and she followed his lead without thought or hesitation.

The band leader, surprised and a little flattered by this spontaneous reaction from his audience, shrugged off the scheduled program and signaled his quartet to play two more Lindys. It became a duel for endurance, finally won by the musicians when the mystery dancers tumbled breathless to the lawn. Grinning and gasping, Hawkeye managed to greet her. "Of all the parks of all the cities of all the world, you dance into mine," he mangled the quote, waggling his eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

"Here, there," she shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. So why aren't you down at the ol' fishing hole?"

"Oh, I was visiting Philly and thought as long as I was in the neighborhood—"

He saw the glint of recognition in her eyes and decided to confess. "OK, you are the only officer in the US army that I can never lie to. You know Sidney Freedman's office is in

Philadelphia."

She nodded.

"OK, so I needed a tune-up, OK?" he declared defiantly, expecting that pitying look he got at home.

"Fine with me."

"Well, OK then." He took a deep calming breath.

"And you're in Boston because-"

"The train stops here. Why not get out, stretch, listen to some music while I wait for my ride..."

"Is this where you catch the bus for home?"

"Eh...some people so inclined travel that way."

It had been two years. He still avoided buses. She decided to change to subject.

"How about a drink? Auld lang syne and all?"

He shook his head regretfully. "Sidney's on this new kick—whenever I want to drink, I'm sposed to go for a run instead."

"Oh. How's that working for you?"

"Great. Last week I made it to Houston."

She laid a hand on his cheek and turned his eyes into hers. "You don't have to try so hard," she whispered. "It's me."

"Yeah, well. People expect it," he muttered.

"Pierce, I never knew what to expect from you, why would I start now? Ah…" she wondered if she would regret her offer in the morning. "Look, I've got a rental. If you know a good place to eat, we could get lunch and I'll drive you home, delivery guaranteed."

"Why?"

"Because." Because I'm lonely and discouraged and frustrated and frightened and by the time she got to the end of her mental check list she could no longer meet his eyes.

"I went back to the 8063," he admitted. And now he could not look at her. "But you guys were too efficient. Everything was gone when I got there. Everything was gone," he repeated. He got up from the grass, brushing off his pants and then in an involuntary assertion of his old self, brushed off her bottom, too. "Let me make some phone calls, and I'll treat you to the best chicken Marsala on the East Coast."

He called his friend Toby to cancel his ride home. He called his father, not to fret that he would be delayed.

"Margaret, it's getting late. Better let me drive, you don't know where you're going."

"After that last glass of wine, neither do you," she giggled. "I thought you were sposed to run..."

"Never on Tuesdays under a full moon-"

"It's still Friday. And it's still an hour's drive. I think we'd better camp and start fresh tomorrow."

"Camp?"

"Relax, I've got a rental. C'mon, remember when we used to dream of hot showers and clean crisp sheets and quiet nights?"

"Not a bad place to flop," Hawkeye appraised her little apartment. "At least you're alone….God that sounds awful. Ungrateful. I love my dad, but his hovering…"

"Not a home. Needs a rocking chair…" she circled slowly, gesturing her vision to him. "With an afghan. I'm never going to be cold again. And a cuckoo clock. And a cat.

And a teapot, a real teapot. Not a kettle, though," she added quickly. "That shrill, whistling shriek…sounds like—"

"I know. I swore off bad coffee on the plane home, but the first time my dad made me tea, I nearly jumped out of my skin." He shook his head. "God, what a pair we are."

"Two of a kind," she murmured.

"Finest kind."

They shared the best chicken Marsala on the East Coast and they had no regrets in the morning.

They'd been together awhile now. She worked part time in a clinic two towns over. Her goal was to increase her endurance so she could bicycle over and leave him the car sometimes. Not that he ever left the house. He could find so much to do there, it kept him safely hidden. And the ramshackle cottage they'd settled in proved good therapy for him. To feel his own hands achieving something strong and purposeful again: The porch steps. The stuck windows. Rebricking the wall.

The realtor tried to dissuade them from purchasing the cottage. "It's so far from neighbors, the roof leaks…" He was puzzled when they fell laughing into each other's arms. Isolation was what they sought. And he'd obviously never shared a cave with rats and mud and strangers shooting at him.

Hawk ambled downyard to fetch the mail. He was relying on his army disability check—just for awhile, he assured himself. He cringed at the designation "mentally disturbed," and wondered again if the stipend was worth the label. The army had taken everything from him, and he deserved this payback.

Still, the army had given him Margaret, so maybe they were even. She was everything now. And whatever the gaps in his brain, his body remembered perfectly.

finis


End file.
